Poem: Tired

I can count
the hours of rest
on the fingers of both hands 
and still have some left over.

An underlying fog
in the back of my mind
never fully evaporates
no matter how much I sleep

Letters in my own handwriting
colored paper remind me
of what to do, where to go
how to react.

No, my memory is still good
I just need a year or three's worth
of mojitos at
the beach side.